Jeremy Clarkson

Clarkson on: F1

Every year, I predict
who will win the Formula One world championship. And every year I am completely
and utterly wrong.

This year, I said it would Jacques
Villeneuve... but don't worry, I'm not losing my touch. Martin Brundle's job is
safe, because I was wrong again.

I may have been right with the outcome but,
as with examinations, you must be able to show how you worked it out. And on
that front, I was all over the place. You see, I said Jacques would win every
single race, have it wrapped up by Silverstone, and that we were in for the
dullest year of racing since the drivers' strike.

And I wasn't alone. Everyone who knows which
way up a helmet goes agreed with me. So what went wrong?

Well I'm not big on conspiracy theories. I
don't, for instance, believe that Princess Diana was murdered by one of the
Queen's corgis. My hair was not cut this morning by Elvis Presley. And I think
Neil Armstrong did make his giant leap on the moon, not on a soundstage in
Nevada.

But at the end of qualifying for the
European GP last month, one of my eyebrows was raised just a little higher than
normal. And at the end of the race, the other one had joined it.

With hindsight, you can see things starting
to go awry in Austria. Schumacher was romping away with the title when he was
hit with a ten-second penalty after passing Heinz-Harald Hopeless under a yellow
flag. Result: Villeneuve closed the gap.

Then there was Japan, when Jacques could
have sewn it all up. But no. He didn't slow down for a waved flag while
qualifying, he was under a one-race suspended ban and that was it. He was out.
Result: Schumacher closed the gap.

And just in case Jacques thought about
appealing, he was warned that Eddie Irvine had done this before and had seen
his ban extended from one to three races. Result: A bunch of promoters with
Blair-style grins.

"Bernie Ecclestone has done a magnificent job with Formula One and he needs these last-minute showdowns"

These penalties had been imposed for clear
misdemeanours, but I find it odd that the only two drivers to have fallen foul
of the law this year were the two fighting for the title, and that both did so
in the championship's dying hours.

Anyway, when the circus arrived in Spain for
the big showdown, Villeneuve and Schumacher were one point apart, and I had
buttocks you couldn't have prised apart with a blow torch.

However, during qualifying we were asked to
believe that Michael and Jacques on this, the greatest day in motor racing, had
driven round the circuit at exactly the same speed - something that had never,
ever happened before. Far-fetched? Not if you think Star Wars is a true
story.

Then came the race. Over the year, I've come
to respect Schumacher, who seemed to be genuinely pleased when he won. He
undoubtedly had an inferior car - one of my beloved Ferraris. He had proved
himself a truly great driver and after his praise for Eddie Irvine in Japan, a
gentleman.

But in Spain he proved that, when all is
said and done, he is still a German.

So he was out and Villeneuve was on his way
to victory, not only in the race but in the championship too. Hip Hip Hooray
and so on.

But wait. What's this? Team managers dash
about in the pits, and look what's happening. Hakkinen has overtaken Coulthard.
On the straight. Fisichella has been blue-flagged, and Villeneuve's car seems
to be suffering some damage after all.

Now, obviously it would be improper for me
to suggest even for one moment that there had been some behind-the-scenes
jiggery-pokery going on, but did you see Coulthard on the podium? He looked
like a man whose dog had just died. Even Hakkinen, who I expected to burst with
pride when he finally won a race, looked like he'd just failed all his
A-Levels.

There's talk that Sylvester Stallone is
working on a Hollywood blockbuster about F1, but if someone presented him with
a script based on the 1997 championship, he'd dismiss it as completely
implausible.

Bernie Ecclestone has done
a magnificent job with Formula One and he needs these last-minute showdowns.
But we, the keen viewers, need to be assured that it is still motorsport with
young men going wheel-to-wheel in a life or death struggle for glory. And not
panto.